


(nothing) like they do on the Discovery Channel

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Double Penetration, M/M, Macro/Micro, PWP, Rimming, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So anyway, what's with the ridiculous size thing?" you ask. "You're coping with your boring afterlife by indulging in some kind of stupidly obvious power fantasy?"</p><p>His hand slips under you and scoops you up and for a second you wish your mouth weren't such a provocation bomb all the time. He just looks at you, though, blank eyes over the rims of red and blue lenses. "I gueth it could be," he says. "But I thought it wath <i>your</i> thtupid power fantathy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	(nothing) like they do on the Discovery Channel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Manisoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manisoke/gifts).



> Sometimes I just need to write porn for stress relief. :x
> 
> An art-tag fic for [this post from askdavespritescloaca](http://askdavespritescloaca.tumblr.com/post/24742987005), which is super NSFW for all the things in my tags.

You don't know what the shit is going on with these dream bubbles, you really don't. You have _no_ fucking business wandering through the memory limbo of dead aliens, most of whom never met any version of you. But it happens anyway. Sometimes it's creepy as hell. Every once in a while it's tearjerker sad (not that you cry, obviously, but some hypothetical onlooker watching you try to talk to Rez would need a whole fucking box of tissues and a year of therapy).

And sometimes it's just weird.

You're tiny this time, which hasn't happened in a dream bubble before. But here you are like some gnarly-ass dumpster-diving version of Tinkerbell, not even three apples high, and staring into the giant 3-D glasses of a dead troll who looks like the kind of guy you would push down the stairs just on principle if you were both to the same scale.

"Goddamn," you say, to break the ice, "how many of you guys managed to get your asses killed, anyway? Can't go two steps without tripping over dead troll around here."

"Ehehe, I'm not the real thing," this guy says, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a badly failed attempt at a smile. "I'm jutht a doomed ecthtra." For about a split second you're getting ready to sympathize, so he ruins it: "You know what that'th like."

"Man, there is nothing _extra_ about me," you tell him, your ruff all bristling up indignantly and goddamn you wish it wouldn't do that. Totally wrecks the appearance of cool. "I am my very own one and only essential self, and these chumps would be _devastated_ without me."

"Eheh, sure," the troll says. Fuck him if he doesn't believe you.

"So anyway, what's with the ridiculous size thing?" you ask. "You're coping with your boring afterlife by indulging in some kind of stupidly obvious power fantasy?"

His hand slips under you and scoops you up and for a second you wish your mouth weren't such a provocation bomb all the time. He just looks at you, though, blank eyes over the rims of red and blue lenses. "I gueth it could be," he says. "But I thought it wath _your_ thtupid power fantathy."

"What?" you say, and it sounds more like a squawk than you want it to. "Dude, no. You are full of shit. You are so full of shit you're a health hazard. They're going to have to send in guys in hazmat suits and bomb the whole area with lysol, that's how full of shit you are."

He snickers again. "Hit a little too clothe to hive? You're ath bad ath KK about plauthible deniability."

You give him your best what the fuck no stare. You have confidence in its potency even when you are currently about eight inches from top to tail. "You did _not_ just compare me to that walking aneurysm."

"If you want me to thtop, getting pithed about it ithn't going to help your cathe," he says. He brings his other hand up and runs a fingertip down the arc of your wing, really gently. Both wings flutter and resettle themselves behind you, this instinctive thing you didn't put any actual thought into.

"Not pissed," you say. "Better men than you have tried and failed to blow my cool." That's only going to get him going, isn't it? Like waving a red flag in front of whatever stupid thing trolls call a bull. It occurs to you that you don't care. He's dead, you're only corporeal in vague and flexible ways, and the trip through the empty void is boring as shit. "You don't freak me out, big guy."

"Huh," he says. "Interethting."

You nearly make a crack about how this is starting to go mad science places, but you don't want to give him any more ideas. Maybe there's a part of you that wants to see where he takes this when you're not actively goading him.

He wraps you up in both hands and _fuck_ , you fit right in his hands, easily, like, his fingers are thicker than your arms, and you're pretty sure damage in dream bubbles doesn't last and not sure if you can be killed by anything short of game-breaking monsters anyway but _he could snap you in half_ , not even hyperbole. And that makes you feel twitchy and hyper-alert and freaked out but not like you need to get away, what is even wrong with your messed-up bird head.

Your new troll friend—whose name you probably should have asked for, but it's a little awkward now, isn't it?—is careful with you, careful but also kind of unstoppable, brushing a thumb down your side, stretching your tail out between his fingers, fluffing up the feathery ruff around your neck. He makes little _hmm_ noises, like he really is studying you, like you're something weird enough that he's never seen anything quite like you before.

When he bends you over, you don't struggle. Your stupid bird instincts want to panic and flail around and hurt yourself, but the rest of you knows that hurting yourself is all you'd manage. He's not hurting you. He's just...fuck.

He's holding you up, bent over at the waist, and you can feel how the position exposes your cloaca and makes it start to dilate just slightly. "Wow," he says.

This is some weird shit, and no mistake. "Dude," you tell him, "you are messed up kinky even for an alien."

He snickers that awful little laugh again. "Yeah?" he says. "How many of uth have you really gotten that clothe with?"

Okay, you'll award him points for that one. "Enough," you say. "You're a freak by anyone's standards."

"Thaid the tiny mutant wingbeatht thprite," the troll says. He hasn't let you move, and you're fighting the impulse to squirm, because he's staring at your—

"Whoa, hey, no," you say when he decides he wants to touch instead of just looking.

He goes still but doesn't let go. "Thcared now?"

"Fuck you, you've got big nasty claws way too close to my junk, and also the word is pronounced _scared_ , with an S." He's getting to you pretty bad if you can't sass him back better than that, but probably he won't be able to tell. Not like he actually knows you.

He pulls you up closer to his face, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, and trolls have mouths full of shark teeth and shit. This is _not_ any kind of experiment you want to do with the limits of your ability to be damaged or to feel pain.

He doesn't bite. He _licks_ you, starting at the joint where you ought to have knees and heading straight up until his tongue is teasing your hole—and then it turns out his tongue is skinny and pointy enough that he can get the tip of it _in_ you, slick and squirming. You have never been so vividly reminded that the tongue is pretty much all muscle.

You claw helplessly at his fingers. "Oh, fuck," you're gasping, "oh, fuck, you freaky pervert."

He laughs, and pulls out of you so he can say, "You're not complaining, are you?" and he's right, there's something seriously wrong with your fluffy bird brain because you just want him to stick it back _in_.

"No, dude, giant alien rimjob was right at the top of my bucket list, and I thought I'd never get anybody to help me out with that one," you say. "If you want to—" you stop yourself from saying _eat me out_ because holy shit if trolls don't use that slang it would go someplace _terrible_ —"tonguefuck me so bad, who am I to tell you knock that shit off?"

Any cool points you awarded yourself for that are immediately canceled out by the noise you make when his tongue pushes back into you. It's wet and flexible and just a little bit warmer than your own body temperature, not enough to be uncomfortable but enough to make you squirm as the heat fills you up. And fuck is it filling you up—his tongue starts out really skinny, sure, but it gets wider fast, and you can feel how it's stretching you open.

You're holding onto him with both claws and tail, clinging like you could stop yourself from shuddering at how weird and invasive and _good_ it feels. There are sensitive spots up there that you didn't even know you had, and you can feel the hard flat planes of his teeth against your skin, this reminder that yeah, he could bite you in half if he tried, shit really is that freaky.

And somewhere in the middle of all the _holy shit_ and the _fuck yes_ your brain-mouth filter (which is never all that effective, let's face it) shuts off completely and you say, "All right, come on, you fucker, let's do this. None of this, hnn, one-sided crap, get your f-fucking pants off and let's see what kind of mind-raping horror you guys actually keep in there."

Your troll hums, which you can feel everywhere his mouth presses against you and inside you and that is _seriously_ a thing that could happen some more. He doesn't move his hands but there's a crackling electrical sound and the distinctive pop-zip of jeans coming undone. Jesus, your kinky giant troll has superpowers.

When he slips his tongue back out of your cloaca, you actually squawk in protest. You feel loose and sloppy, opened up, and being suddenly empty—not to mention chilled, as air hits all that wetness—is frustrating. "Here," your troll says, lowering you to crotch level. "I hope you're up for a challenge."

Goddamn, okay. You'd been expecting something sort of like human dick, maybe with nubs or spikes or some shit since trolls are so hot for violence or whatever. You were not expecting a tapering, squirming, gooey tentacle about as long from base to tip as you are, and you were _really_ not expecting two of them. "Man, that is some sick nasty alien freak dick," you tell him.

"Eheh, yeah, pretty much everyone'th jealouth," he says. "Can't blame you. Not jutht anyone getth a double helping."

For a second you hate him so much it comes out the other side into appreciation. Then you pull it together enough to remember you've got this spit-sloppy empty hole that still wants attention, and you damn well expect this douchebag to do something about it. "Okay, you've got a bright yellow sea anemone in your pants. Sure, I'll play impressed. Now show me what it does."

"You athked for it," he says smugly, moving you into range. One of his tentacles twines with your tail, and you welcome the anchor. Then the very tip of it nudges at your cloaca, squirming, working its way in.

You moan, you pant for breath, you shudder in his hand, holy _shit_ you can barely stand it, even the tip so thick you don't think you can take it. If he hadn't already had his tongue in there to warm you up, you don't think you'd be able to handle even this much. The tentacle's going deeper than his tongue did, though, pressing up into you until you ache from being so full—but there's some kind of nub up in there that it's squirming against now, making little jolts of pleasure crackle up your spine.

"Fuck," you say helplessly, and you should be more eloquent, but your single all-purpose hole has been thoroughly commandeered for alien-fucking purposes and it's wrecking you. "Oh god, fuck."

"Yeah," your troll agrees, "that'th really hot." The other tentacle curls up in front of you as he pulls his supporting hand away, and you wind up leaning your forearms on its slick length. When you glance down you can see him squeezing the base of it, working himself up more. "Here, open up," he says.

You'd ask him how much more _open_ he thinks you can get, but he's looping that free tentacle around your wrists and squeezing them together, bringing the tip up to your face. He smells like salt and this faintly citrusy tang, the tentacle rubbing wet against your lips. Just the one is already on the edge of too much, and he wants to stuff you with the other one too?

You're groaning in surrender as you open your mouth, as you lean forward to encourage him to fill you up. It just barely fits in your mouth with your jaw stretched wide, pressing down on your tongue, squirming against your palate. It tastes just as tangy-sharp as you'd expected, and the weird musky citrusy smell is almost overwhelming. The first time it strokes the back of your throat you choke, and then you can feel fluids running down your chin, spit and sloppy alien lube.

He lets one hand slip down between his legs, and—fuck, is he fingering himself? Those sloppy wet noises sure sound like something gross and sexy is happening down there. His tentacles are starting to get into a rhythm with you, though, squirming and pulsing, spit-roasting you like you are Sunday dinner in need of some very thorough basting. You're dripping from both holes and the hot spot he's rubbing inside your cloaca is driving you crazy, like making an orgasm into a long, sustained note instead of a crescendo and a sharp break.

"Here," he says, and you think he sounds a little breathless himself. He coaxes the tip of your tail down to this stiff nub where his tentacles start, and your tail coils around it instinctively. He whimpers, and you squeeze again, and both of his tentacles do this shivery rippling thing inside you that feels amazing.

So, fuck, you can totally react to positive reinforcement with the best of them. You squeeze his freaky little alien pleasure button and he tentacle fucks you at both ends and you feel like you are honest to god getting high from the endless stream of endorphins you've got going on here. You're a sloppy fucked-out mess, totally caught up in the smell and the taste of him and the feel of being filled up right to your limit and _kept_ there, unable to come down.

You keep it up, both of you do, and he gets kind of twitchy and his breathing gets harsh, his hand still working at himself as he goes all tense and trembly—and when _he_ comes, fuck damn do you know it. His tentacles pulse, releasing more slime all along their lengths, and he makes these sharp sobbing noises and the stuff is soaking all the way down his legs, too. He goes limp enough that you can kind of pull free, but you're soaked all over with his goo and pretty wobbly yourself, so it's not like you're going far. You both sit there trying to catch your breath. You're sore and shaky and covered in alien sex juice, and from the way you just flop on him you think you probably have a serious case of the post-sex stupids.

All in all? Pretty good, as dream bubbles go.


End file.
